


Wasteland Baby

by nprose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale loves Crowley's hair and that's it, Little bit of hurt/comfort, M/M, yeah of course I named it after a hozier song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:28:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21574528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nprose/pseuds/nprose
Summary: Aziraphale comforts Crowley, and himself.short/sweet fic about Aziraphale loving Crowley (and his hair)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49





	Wasteland Baby

Mesopotamia

It was the first time he’d needed comfort. After the flood, it was quiet, so eerily quiet. He and Aziraphale were almost alone, the only creatures they could see or hear. 

He was so tired. Exhausted, feeling the hot sand under his feet, dragging them, needing to go somewhere. He couldn’t have snapped out of the desert and appeared somewhere else. 

Aziraphale was right there, solemn and whispering seemingly to Crowley, but truly to himself. 

“We did all we could. We got all the children, all of them we could. It’s alright, it’s Her plan. We, it was the plan…”

Crowley sunk down, like the sand was pulling on him. Aziraphale sat, brushing sand off his knees, back straight and shielding his eyes from the sun. Crowley made to lie within the sand, to go back to his snake form and bask, letting the heat leak into his bones. Aziraphale caught him, careful hands running through Crowley’s curls, in a futile effort to shake out the sand. Crowley winced, Aziraphale apologizing in the same beat. His hair was a mess. He should have gotten rid of it.

His head was in Aziraphale’s lap, Aziraphale carefully working out the knots, slowly, so slowly as to not hurt Crowley. Crowley felt his eyes slip closed, surrendering to the heaviness he felt pressing into him.

Aziraphale worked out the knots in Crowley’s hair over and over until it shone, bright and beautiful. He kept going, short nails raking patterns across Crowley’s scalp that calmed the both of them.

In the sky above, the first rainbow gleamed.

Dowling Residence

The gardener stayed in the cottage outside, and sometimes the nanny did too.

None of them were meant to know about it, of course. But the residence of such an important family was crawling with staff, and they talked.

Crowley perched on Aziraphale’s rickety old dining chair, exasperation writ across her face. Aziraphale pushed the last strand of ginger hair aside, looking at it fondly and willing it to stay in place, adding an extra hairpin for good measure.

No matter the amount of practice she got, she could never keep it quite as tidy as Aziraphale could. She blamed it on Aziraphale’s fussy fashion sense, and griped about it, but she didn’t mind. Aziraphale carefully unpinning her hair, brushing it out slowly, rhythmically, humming behind her, was a rare indulgence. Being admired and fussed over was one of her particular loves.

Aziraphale blessed her with a wide, unrestrained smile. He was as beautiful as ever, but Crowley affected disapproval at the disguise as she picked up her jacket and carpet bag from Aziraphale’s small table. 

“Ta, angel,” she said, slipping on her accent for the day. She’d found it fit her rather well.

Perhaps if she popped right into her rooms no one would notice she’d gone.

Mayfair

They’d held hands on the bus ride back, parting easily as they stood to exit. Aziraphale thanked the bus driver and pushed a fifty pound note into his hand with a beatific smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

Crowley lingered at the door to his building, which was tall and concrete and angular, worry at the edges of his mouth. He didn’t want to let Aziraphale out of his sight. He held the doors, pressed the button in the lift.

When the door to Crowley’s empty flat closed, the click echoed off the concrete walls. Aziraphale disappeared to the corner of the flat he assumed to be the kitchen, to make tea. It was what one did in a crisis.

There was no kettle. In fact, there was no kitchen. Crowley waved him over to the uncomfortable sofa, where Aziraphale sat, tension running through him like an electric current. 

Crowley sprawled across most of the sofa, his head close enough to Aziraphale’s lap, where his twitching fingers rested, to be an obvious distraction. He settled and hummed in satisfaction when Aziraphale skimmed his fingers through Crowley’s hair in short, practiced motions.

Soho

“Good morning.”

“Hmmmm,” Crowley replied into one of Aziraphale’s plush pillows, rolling over to accept the ritual cup of tea, and dragging himself to sit up.

He was always fully dressed in the morning, but without the bow tie. Crowley smiled at the open collar on Aziraphale’s shirt. Aziraphale reached over to tug Crowley’s hair free of the waist-length braid and tidy it for the day, and Crowley smiled into his tea.

“Hey, angel.”

“Hello. Sit still, will you? You’ve mussed this terribly.”

Crowley straightened his posture a millimeter, if that, and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his free hand. 

“Will you open the shop?”

“No.” Crowley can hear the smile in his voice. “I thought we might go to the Tate.”

Crowley screwed up his face. “Must we? Not the Tate Modern, at least.”

“I know no matter how you protest you quite like modern art.”

They slipped again into companionable silence, Aziraphale combing Crowley’s hair slow and running his fingers through it, before braiding it. But he paused at the end, didn’t tie it off.

“Thought you wanted to be off, angel. You know these places and the tourists.”

“Just another moment, dear.” He stayed still, contemplating. Crowley turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow, and was gently turned back so Aziraphale could begin again.

Unwinding the strands, be wary of knots, separate the curls. Under, over, under again. And at the end, a hair ribbon, with Aziraphale’s tartan, knotted firmly, adjusted so both sides were the same. Crowley, knowing that was permission, leaned up against him, bright eyes shining in the light from the window overlooking the street. 

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around Crowley, letting Crowley melt against him.

“I suppose we’ll have to wait, dear. You know these places and the tourists. There’ll be a queue this early.”

Crowley huffed in amusement, agreement. “Lunch?”


End file.
